


unexpected conclusions

by klefaeries



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: AFAB reader - Freeform, Alternate Universe, F/F, Reader-Insert, Tentacle Sex, dnd verse, god this is so stupidly horny lmao, magical experiments gone wrong, or did it go right? i'll let u decide, this is 100 percent consensual btw, warlock!moira, wlw smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-09-23 16:45:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20343367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klefaeries/pseuds/klefaeries
Summary: This isn't the first magical experiment Moira has enlisted your help for. It certainly won't be the last, either.





	unexpected conclusions

**Author's Note:**

> hhhhhhhsfndfjhsdufhsdfhfh i...i blame this on that one concept art moira. you know what im talking about. jeff kaplan ur a pussy for not giving us the moira we deserve.
> 
> anyway, this is yet another one of my ambiguously dnd au smut oneshots. moira is a warlock with a pact with a great old one, and you're a wizard. 
> 
> the spell is based off of an actual warlock conjuration called evard's black tentacles. i did my research!

You know exactly how you got yourself into this mess, but you’re still appalled at your own lack of self-preservation. 

The damp, cool air of the cavern makes you shiver as you stand in the middle of an arcane circle, the runes glowing with a dim green light. The shadows cast on the cavern walls by your slight movement are freakishly large, but you know it’s just because of the angle. Moira is off to the side, gleefully scribbling something into her grimoire. The runes she inscribed into the stone floor of the cave make her look even paler than usual; green is not her color. Her eyes, one gold and one violet, glimmer impishly as she finishes whatever she’s writing and slips the loosely bound book of spells into the folds of her cloak, focusing her gaze on you.

“Are you ready, my dear?”

The sonorous timbre of her voice makes you shiver even more than the clammy air sticking to your skin. You hate how easily you find yourself giving in to her whims.

...no, not really. Moira can be exasperating, and is skilled in the art of pushing your buttons at times, but you can’t deny just how deeply you’ve fallen for her. She’s callous and calculating to the untrained eye, seeming to be focused only on her magic research, but when the two of you are alone she smothers you with the utmost affection. 

Sometimes a little too much. Moira is nothing if not meticulous, both in matters of love magic alike. You’ve lost count of the times where she’s been so utterly thorough in lavishing you with attention that you’ve been unable to walk the next day. That is simply how Moira is. It stands to reason that this new spell wouldn’t be any different.

Besides, the two of you may have come into magic in very different ways, but you’re just as curious as she is regarding her most recent experiment. 

“As I’ll ever be,” you respond dryly, glancing down at the intricate patterns of conjuration runes. As always, Moira’s skill with drawing sigils is flawless, and you can’t help but admire the beauty of the glowing symbols surrounding you. 

Even if they are of an ancient and relatively unknown origin, given to Moira by the mysterious unnamed entity who bestowed upon her all of her arcane abilities.

“Excellent.” Moira comes and stands directly in front of you, her poise and posture the picture of perfection. In the green glow of the runic circle, her flaming red hair takes on an almost ghoulish tint ―considering her somewhat sallow cheeks and thin lips, she looks akin to a banshee of sorts in this light. 

A very attractive, brilliant, infuriating banshee to whom you would not hesitate to offer up your soul.

“Now remember, darling,” Moira intones as she raises her hands, palms down and outstretched towards the circle, “if it gets to be too much, let me know immediately so I can cease the conjuration. I don’t wish for you to be hurt for the sake of my research.”

“I’ve cast Mage Armor.” You wiggle your fingers and gesture towards your body, which is encased in a thin layer of magical energy that one would have to concentrate in order to become aware of. “It should be enough defense, but if this spell manages to destroy it too quickly, I’ll tell you first thing.”

“Ah, that’s my girl. Ever prepared and ready for the worst.”

Her praise brings a satisfied smile to your lips, and there’s nothing more to be said as she begins the spell.

Her eyes go black as pitch, glazed over with a dull midnight. She speaks in a voice not her own; dark and deep and dangerous, it’s alarmingly inhuman and not meant for your mortal ears. The words are incomprehensible. You’re not sure even Moira knows what she’s saying, though her pride would never allow her to admit it. 

The runes start to glow brighter, filling the cavern with a bright and almost incandescent emerald light. It’s so bright that you have to close your eyes, but you can still see green behind your eyelids. 

There’s an odd tension in the air; kind of like how it feels when it’s about to storm, but it hasn’t begun to thunder yet. Your skin prickles. The ground beneath you rumbles ever so slightly. Somewhere inside of you, the primal urge to run begs you to take heed of its warning.

And then there’s a horrifying sound, the screech of some creature from a plane far beyond your cognizance, and reality tears in two with a shriek.

Your eyes snap open just in time to see tentacles erupting from the ground under your feet. They’re as black as Moira’s eyes and as thick as an orc’s forearm, rising ten feet into the air and surrounding you on all sides. You can’t help the startled yelp from escaping your lips and flinch as they burst forth from the eldritch sigils, even though you were fully aware of what was going to happen beforehand. Moira had painstakingly explained every possible aspect of the spell before you had agreed to her testing its capabilities on you, after all.

The tentacles are covered in a viscous slime-like substance. It gives the things an oily sheen, and they smell...strong. You’re not quite sure what they smell like, to be completely honest, but it’s an overpowering odor that assaults your senses nonetheless. 

Just as you choke down a gag, the tentacles―there are six of them altogether―swivel in midair and seem to stare at you despite the fact they don’t have eyes.

Somehow, it’s an almost predatory gaze. 

“Holy shit,” you breathe, swallowing. You glance towards Moira, whose eyes are back to normal, and she looks quite pleased with herself. 

“Impeccable,” she says to no one in particular, clasping her hands together with a flourish. Ever the dramatic when an experiment goes well.

The tentacles suddenly divebomb down towards you without warning. You barely have time to brace for impact and the pain that’s surely to come with it. But there is no pain―there is barely an impact, really. Because instead of being struck by them with the force of an ancient and forgotten thing, your entire body is wrapped up within their grasp before you can even react. They’re strong, coiling around your waist and legs and upper body, and you shudder at the cold wetness of their touch. Panic starts to rise within you, and you have to fight down the urge to struggle within their grasp, because all in all you’ve experienced much worse regarding both Moira’s and your own magical experimentation. 

You expect them to start squeezing you much like a boa constrictor would to its next meal, but...they don’t. They just lazily curl around you, lifting you a few feet in the air, and if it wasn’t for the sticky goo coating their outsides (or the stench), it would almost be relaxing. 

“M-Moira,” you say slowly, cautiously, part of you concerned than any movement would send the tentacles into a murderous frenzy. “Shouldn’t they be...attacking me?”

She looks as perplexed as you feel. The haughty delight in her face that had been evident only moments before has been replaced by bewilderment. “Yes. I gave the command and told them that you were the enemy, but…”

As she trails off, lips pursed and arms crossed, obviously lost in thought, the tentacles begin to move.

It’s subtle at first. You barely notice it, too focused on your own inward exchange with all of your arcane knowledge in an attempt to figure out why Moira’s spell isn’t attacking you. It’s when something cold and wet begins to slither past the fabric of your shirt, slipping under it and making contact with the bare skin of your stomach, that you are jolted from your thoughts. 

“What the fu―”

Another tentacle snakes down and stops between your legs. It slowly undulates against you, as if uncertain of what to do next, and you let out a strangled noise when another finds its way between your leggings and your smallclothes. The assault of a clammy wetness against your hips makes you jerk your body in automatic retaliation, wriggling uselessly in the tentacles’ grasp. 

The tentacle that had previously found its way under your shirt pushes your bra up and off of your breasts with ease. You yelp when it curls around both of your breasts, cold and sticky and very alien to you, and suck in a gasp when the end of it brushes against one of your nipples. It’s an almost indecent movement, slow and methodical, as if it knows exactly what it’s doing. 

You open your mouth to shout for Moira, but the cry dies down and is replaced by a breathy whine when the tentacle in your leggings slips between the barrier of your smallclothes and inches down onto your clit. The shock of the slimy sensation sliding against your sex makes the tips of your fingers and toes tingle because it is not unpleasant―not by a long shot.

It’s the exact opposite.

Your eyes grow wide as the tentacle wrapped around your breasts begins to...massage the sensitive mounds of flesh, twirling and squeezing all around. The tentacle in your smallclothes starts a rhythmic pattern of sliding back and forth against your clitoris, reaching down past the openings of your sex and covering the entirety of your cunt in the process. You hear the sound of fabric ripping when the thick tendrils holding you in midair start to tear at your clothes with an almost eager tenderness. You let a little moan slip past your lips when you feel your shirt and leggings and everything else begins to fall apart, fluttering to the cave floor and leaving you completely nude.

The inky blackness of the tentacles is hypnotic as they snake and writhe around you. You can’t tear your eyes away, equal parts fascinated and turned on, watching as a second tentacle makes its way around one of your breasts. It coats it with its thick, syrupy slime and you moan again when you feel the stuff slowly drip down your chest. The tentacle rubbing between your legs picks up the pace ever so slightly, still encompassing your cunt and clit alike, and a pressure begins to build in the pit of your stomach. Your body grows hot. 

Gods be damned, this was the best failed experiment you had  _ ever  _ been a part of.

Though, to be frank, you definitely weren’t considering it failed.

“Oh dear.” Moira’s voice is oddly distant to your ears, because your mind is beginning to focus on the cadence of the tentacles rubbing at your tits and sex alike. “I believe I may have drawn one of the sigils wrong. The spell is...oh,  _ dear _ .”

You manage force yourself to look towards where you think her voice is coming from. On the ground, Moira is looking up with a rapidly-growing smirk on her face. Her last words sounded quite hungry. She’s tapping a finger against her cheeks, eyebrows raised. You imagine you’re quite a spectacle; stuck in a mass of writhing eldritch tentacles, letting out little moans and getting caressed everywhere that it matters.

“Pet,” Moira drawls out slowly, emphatically, stepping closer to the conjuration circle. “It seems this particular variation of the spell isn’t meant for pain at all. It’s meant…”

The tentacles that aren’t feeling you up lower you down until you’re at eye level with Moira. She reaches her arms out and her hands rest gently on your cheeks, fingernails ghosting your skin. She licks her lips, a cat eyeing a bowl of cream.

“...for pleasure.”

Her mouth covers yours at the same time that the tentacle sliding against your sex decides to go a little further. You gasp into Moira’s kiss, her tongue eerily reminiscent of the fluid way the tentacles move as it snakes around yours. The tentacle at the juncture between your legs prods at the entrance of your pussy, the head of it pushing through into your folds. You expect the invasion to feel cold but, either you’ve gotten used to the sensations of the tentacles against your skin or you’re just far too horny, because everything inside of you is burning like hellfire.

“Nnngh…h...hngh…!”

You’ve had Moira’s fingers inside you on multiple occasions. You’ve had the amusing toys she’s bought plunge deep into your core. But you have never, ever,  _ ever _ felt something quite like the tentacle as it sluggishly begins to fill you up.

You whimper against Moira’s lips as she devours you ravenously, still cupping your face. Her tongue dances with yours like it was born to do just that. She tastes like magic. There’s no other way to describe it, because your mind isn’t necessarily the most coherent at the moment. Her nose bumps against yours when the tentacles shift you slightly, one of them prying your legs apart as the other that’s investigating your insides continues to slide further and further in. It’s so  _ thick _ and  _ big  _ and oh gods, oh  _ gods… _

Your arms flail in the tentacle’s grasp, desperate to find purchase on anything when the one inside your pussy completes its entry, absolute stuffing you. The tentacles that are assaulting your tits with caresses start to pay particular attention to your nipples, squeezing and pinching the tips with skillful precision. 

Moira pulls away from you, a line of saliva connecting your bruised lips with hers. You gasp for air and a wanton moan makes its way along with it. A tentacle slithers down to your clit, which is aching desperately for attention now that the tentacle that was previously rubbing against it is beginning to take experimental thrusts at a nonchalant pace. 

“M-More…!” you manage to mewl. 

You don’t think you’ve ever sounded so pathetically shameless in your life.

The tentacle is stroking and slathering your clit with slime. Your head falls back and your toes curl as it picks up the pace, undulating and squeezing the sensitive bundle of nerves in ways you’d never imagined possible. Pleasure fills your mind, white-hot and boiling. 

Inside your pussy, the other tentacle is fucking you at full speed now. Relentlessly, aggressively―it thrusts in and out, stretching you with every movement, working in a perceptive pattern that hits every spot imaginable. 

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Hard. 

Fast. 

Thick. 

_ Full. _

You lose to capacity for human speech when the tentacle ravishing your clit enfolds the entirety of it in its coils and squeezes just right. Your mouth hangs open and for a moment, you think you black out. The pressure at the ends of your fingertips and toes bursts. The sheer bliss of your orgasm wraps you in a blanket of ecstasy. The tentacle inside of your pussy gives one last, very powerful thrust and your hips arc upwards as you let out a primal, animalistic moan of pleasure. 

You think you scream Moira’s name. 

You’re not entirely sure.

You  _ do  _ know that you see Paradise when you come undone, however. 

When you come back to reality, you’re a panting, sweating, heaving mess in the midst of the tentacles. They’re still holding you, but they’ve ceased their carnal ministrations against your body. You’re cradled in midair, breathing heavily and eyes fluttering wildly, every nerve in your body numb from the absolute and thorough fucking you just received. 

Moira laughs. It is delighted, eager sound. You somehow manage to turn your head and meet her gaze; her eyes blaze with a restless fire as they rake up and down your ooze-covered form. She’s pulled out her grimoire and is scribbling in it again, the movements of the quill against the parchment hurried and impatient.

“Well, now.”

She licks her lips again, setting the grimoire down on the ground and beginning to unfasten the holdings of her cloak. The tentacles shudder around you, and one unentangles itself from its place wrapped around your thigh and begins to stretch towards Moira. It gingerly strokes her cheek, a loving and tender motion not unlike the way she touches you after a night of vigorous lovemaking.

Seeing that simple touch makes your belly begin to burn again. As exhausted and spent as you are, you still want more.

Better yet...

“I suppose it’s my turn. I must ensure that every factor imaginable is touched upon, of course. What say you, darling?”

...you want Moira this time, too.


End file.
